


Something In Common

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, all the pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-15 05:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13024146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: Adaar keeps insisting they share a tent. “We have nothing in common, boss.”“You haveonething in common,” Adaar says, with exasperation.(Or: They're both in love, they're both terrible at it, and eventually there's only one thing to be done)





	Something In Common

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AuditoryCheesecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/gifts).



> A treat involving some mutual pining that somehow got out of hand. I went Full Trope on this one, hope that's okay with you.
> 
> Thanks to June for a great word war!

Adaar and Dorian have their heads together again, a bottle of wine between them. Thick as thieves, goes the saying in the South, although there's a more directly applicable phrase in Qunlat: a conspiracy of saarebas.

He does not mean to listen in, only that it is habit to gather snippets of conversation out of the noise around him, and also when Adaar gets drunk she becomes excessively loud. “I don't believe there's _nobody_ who's caught your eye.” she says.

This is not even remotely relevant to the Qun, but all the same he can't help but catch the way Dorian smiles when he answers, some side-step that's not quite a denial. Well, good for him. Hope it works out.

Something in his chest feels weird, as he looks on the scene. Huh. Not like he's eaten anything dodgy today. Cabot must have gotten an off cask in or something, although his ale tastes just fine.

No matter. He's got a strong constitution, so whatever it is will probably pass.

* * *

The latest addition to the endless parade into The Iron Bull's bed is one of Leliana's men, lean and offensively scraggly. Currently to be found hanging about the training area that Dorian's nearest window just happens to look out to. Honestly, his hair is so unkempt, Dorian can't even tell whether he's actually bedded the Bull already and this is some sort of post-coital socialisation, or whether they're still working up to it.

“Is The Iron Bull pertinent to your current research?” Helisma asks suddenly by his ear, making him jump.

He can't believe he is feeling judged by a Tranquil. “Of _course_ not.” 

“Does it aid your thought process to gaze upon him?” She looks almost thoughtful. “I used to find it calming to watch my beloved, even from afar.”

“I am not _gazing_ upon anybody. The light is better by the window.” Dorian says, biting back any ruder responses that might come to mind. It is not as if Helisma would be offended, but somehow that only makes him feel worse when he loses his temper around her. Really, what's the point in insulting someone who won't give as good as they get?

“In the morning, you would be correct. In the afternoon, the best light will come from that window.” Helisma says, pointing to the other side of the library. “There is a free desk. Shall I assist you in moving your research materials?”

Dorian glances out the window again. “Oh, you might as well.” It's not as if watching is going to do anything about The Iron Bull's terrible taste in everything.

* * *

Adaar keeps insisting they share a tent. “We have nothing in common, boss.”

“You have _one_ thing in common,” Adaar says, with exasperation he doesn't quite understand, but he supposes she is correct in the end. They are both members of the Inquisition, and they should get along.

It's not like he minds Dorian's company. He's smart, even if some of his opinions are objectively terrible, and he cares more about other people than he likes to let on. Unfortunately, he also doesn't like The Iron Bull very much, and clearly likes Hissrad even less, judging by the constant pot-shots at the Qun.

It is probably not wise to forget that, in the end, they are supposed to be enemies.

“You were flirting with that cook.” Dorian says, almost like an accusation.

He shrugs. It's true, after all. “She makes good stew.”

“I cannot even tell if you are joking or not.” Dorian replies. “What does the stew have to do with anything?”

“Because she's an admirable cook.” He pauses and thinks it over. This might be one of those things that doesn't translate well. “There's a word in Qunlat. Sort of means _well-fitted_. Take you, for example.”

“Oh, this ought to be good.” Dorian drawls sarcastically. “Fine, by all means, take me as an example. I am well aware that I am a terrible cook.”

Dorian had once, and only once, had a moment when he thought he might assist with the meal preparation at camp, so Bull and everyone else who suffered through that one is well aware of this fact. “But you're a brilliant mage.”

“You're not telling me anything I'm not already well aware of,” Dorian says. “but I suppose if you're intending to continue in this vein, I shall allow it.”

“I mean, obviously, you're smart, and good at all the magic shit,” Bull says, ignoring Dorian's disbelieving echo of _the magic shit_ , “but also you're strong, and it's the right kind of strong. Agile, not too bulky. Good stamina, too.”

“You only _wish_ you knew what my stamina was like.” Dorian says.

“The offer's on the table. Thought I'd made that clear by now.” He's well aware it's not the only one, but Dorian's a good looking guy, so that's to be expected. 

“Ah yes, the rare gift that is to be one of your many conquests.” Dorian replies, and pulls the blanket over himself as a dismissal. “Go to sleep, The Iron Bull. You have second watch.”

* * *

Of course, in the end, they do end up in bed together. It is not as if he's had no other offers-- why, that one charming Templar had seemed nearly ready to propose on the spot after nothing but a kiss, dear sweet thing that he was.

He keeps finding reasons why not, though. Not the Templar, not the Orlesian, not the Free Marcher with a gift for flattery and a even greater gift for oral sex and a very nearly tolerable taste in poetry. By all means, let him find reasons why those men who are available and willing and entirely suitable are not suitable at all. By all means, let him keep doing this instead. Let him keep aiming for that which has always been impossible and then being surprised when it all falls in about his head. 

Rilienus all over again, except that The Iron Bull seems very unlikely to end up marrying one of his cousins.

Instead, sex. He knows what is on offer, and he takes it, and it is grand. Except, of course, for the part where The Iron Bull is a _literal qunari spy_ whose people, he is informed, do not even believe in romance as an actual thing. So naturally Dorian would fall in love with him, because why break the habit of a lifetime by choosing a man who might actually love him back?

“You could stay, you know.” Bull says sleepily, as Dorian carefully puts himself back in order.

“I really can't.” Dorian replies, with some depth of feeling, and tells himself he's glad when Bull turns to face the wall without asking him why.

* * *

Two dead assassins, and all he's got to show for it is a wound that's not even going to leave a pretty scar, and a bad taste in the back of his mouth from the antidote.

The weird thing is, it doesn't feel weird. It feels inevitable, something that's been building for years, just held back until that one single moment. Like the flood when a dam bursts. Possibly he should try to think of similes that involve less death and destruction, but none spring to mind.

Since it's been a day for emotional confusion, it figures that Dorian would be lying in wait for him on the way back. Not in actual wait, because he's not that sneaky, and it would be entirely possible for Bull to have taken another route back to his room, but still, there he is.

“I hear you have stupidly decided not to take actual medical advice about that wound.” is his opening gambit.

It's a warm sort of feeling, knowing Dorian cares, even if nine times out of ten that care is couched in an insult or a threat. “I know what poisons the Ben-Hassrath use, trust me.”

“I've heard several stories myself. The effects of qunari poisons make up a _sizable_ proportion of my homeland's propaganda.” Dorian looks him over, long and steady. “You certainly seem no worse than usual. I was worried you were going blind, but then I remembered that you always dress like that.”

“I'm fine.” he says.

“Apart from the assassination attempts.”

“Singular. Failed. Assassination attempt.” He shrugs. “I knew it was coming.”

“Well, the rest of us might have appreciated a warning.” Dorian says. “You really are the most _infuriating_ idiot, you know. I-- Adaar was worried.”

Adaar had shrugged it off once he'd explained he was taking the antidote and offered to buy him 'as many drinks as it took'. “You worried?”

“There may have been the briefest flicker of concern, although I now see it was both unwanted and unwarranted.” Dorian shrugs. “You're a friend, after all.”

A friend. That's good, that's a definition he can work with. “I am that.” he agrees. Just because this whatever it is doesn't feel quite the same way as anything else he'd call friend is probably besides the point. The details they can work out in time.

“Wonderful. So glad we had this conversation.” Dorian says. “So very, very glad.”

* * *

“That man you mentioned, the one you had your eye on.” Adaar says.

He would walk away, but she's holding the wine hostage. “I have nothing to tell you, you incorrigible gossip.”

“Not been swept off your feet then?”

“I remain solidly on the ground, and also I resent the implication that I would be _swept_.” Dorian informs her.

“But you are still interested?” Adaar says. “I just thought, you know, if the situation had changed, things might... move along, so to speak.”

“Stop fishing for information, because I'm not telling you who it is.” Dorian says, and giving up on getting the bottle back, pushes his glass over. “Also, I am sorry to disappoint, but I fear there is little hope of me having any grand romantic stories to pass along to you any time soon. You'll have to live with whatever sordid tales of his exploits The Iron Bull sees fit to regale us all with at the top his voice in the middle of the tavern.”

“Bloody hopeless, both of you.” Adaar says, but at least she refills his glass.

* * *

“Stitches has that look again.” Rocky announces. “He's in _loooooove_.”

Bull looks over at Stitches, who does look a little off his food. “He looks like he's got wind.”

“Nah, this is the real deal.” Rocky says. “He's got all the symptoms. Pangs in the chest, shivers down the spine, his normally black and shrivelled heart skipping a beat, etcetera.”

“Fuck off.” Stitches says, absent-mindedly, without turning his attention away from the far corner of the room where a cluster of the healers are gathered.

“Witness his irritation on being separated from his beloved.” Dalish continues. “It's no use treating the physical symptoms of the disease, Chief. We're going to have to intervene.”

“Sounds like fun.” Bull says. He's not sure what form this will take, but it sounds like hijinks, and hijinks are usually fun.

This does make Stitches turn his attention back to their table. “You are the _last_ person who should be worrying about _my_ love life.”

“He has a point, Chief.” Rocky says.

What? “Why's that?”

All the Chargers look at each other. “I vote Krem explains it to him.” Dalish says. “This can't go on.”

Rocky nods. “Agreed. All in favour?”

A large cheer goes up from around the table. “What's this about?” Krem says, coming back to the table with another round of drinks.

“We took a vote.” Rocky informs him, with some apparent delight. “You get to explain The Thing.”

“We agreed that we weren't going to intervene regarding The Thing.” Krem protests. “We were going to let The Thing work itself out.”

“Look at him!” Dalish says. “It's not working itself out. By unanimous vote, somebody needs to do something, and the somebody is you.”

Krem slams Dalish's drink down in front of her, drinks his own in one long gulp. “I hate you all. Chief, we need a word. In private.”

Upstairs, he paces a moment. “Look. It's become obvious to us that you're spending a lot of time with Dorian Pavus.”

“In bed.” Bull interjects, because he can't resist.

Krem sighs at him. “Not just in bed. If it was just in bed we wouldn't be concerned.”

“You're concerned?”

“We just think that maybe _you_ should think about how you _feel_. About Dorian, specifically.”

“Dorian's a good guy.” Bull informs him. “You should know that by now.”

“That's... not really what I was getting at.” Krem says. “More like-- how he makes you feel, and if you make a sex joke I will knock you out cold, I can't believe those bastards are making me do this by myself.”

This one is more of a puzzle. He's actually not sure what answer Krem is expecting here. “We're friends.” That, at least, has been established.

“Also not an actual feeling that you feel.” Krem says. “Let's try a hypothetical. _Hypothetically_ , if you were in love with Dorian Pavus, how would you know?”

“If I was--” He pauses.

“In love.” Krem says, patiently. “With that puffed-up Altus pain in the arse, yes.”

A long silence. If he was in love with Dorian. If he was in _love_ with Dorian. If he was in love with _Dorian_. What shape would that feeling take? How would he know it if it came to him?

“How about you think about that some more,” Krem says, distantly, “and I go back downstairs and have a drink. Several drinks. All the drinks.”

He does think about it. He can't not, really, now that Krem's brought it up.

Eventually, as the sun rises, he comes to a conclusion.

He thinks it might feel like _this_.

What he's supposed to do about that, when Dorian's never given any indication of wanting anything from him beyond friendship, he doesn't know.

* * *

Adaar and Krem together in the library is an odd combination, but Dorian supposes he's had worse sets of visitors. “Can I be of assistance?”

“The Iron Bull is in love.” Adaar says, bluntly.

He knew, distantly, that as Bull opened up to the world beyond the Qun, that this might happen. Has steeled himself for the moment for some time. He has known this before, this almost inevitable moment of _it's been great, but..._ Somehow, it still stings terribly. 

Not that he intends to let either of these two know that. “My condolences to the lovely redhead in question. Anyone I know?”

“Fucking thrice-blighted hells. Really? _Really?_ ” Krem says.

“I told you.” Adaar says to him. “Disasters all around.”

“I can't believe this is my life.” Krem says.

“Is one of you going to explain to me exactly why it takes both the Inquisitor and The Iron Bull's second in command to deliver this news to me?” Dorian asks, since so far all they've done is tell him The Iron Bull is in love and then it's been non-sequiturs all the way. 

“Not here.” Adaar says. “Follow me.”

He does. He's a little surprised to see Josephine waiting outside one of the smaller rooms they use for meeting with dignitaries. Maker, don't tell him that Bull has fallen in love in a manner that has managed to cause some sort of _diplomatic incident_ , although that seems like the sort of thing that idiot would do. Never can do things by half.

“Everything is prepared.” Josephine says, smiling prettily at the Inquisitor. Honestly, why Adaar continues to be so blind to Josephine's obvious infatuation with her, Dorian doesn't know. It's entirely obvious to anyone with eyes. Even one eye would do.

He is not surprised to see that Bull is in the room already when Josephine ushers him in, although why exactly they should imagine that he has any romantic advice worth giving he doesn't know. He supposes he will do his best, though.

His first instinct is, of course, to be cruel. He's good at that. An unworthy thought. Bull deserves to be happy.

He _is_ surprised that nobody follows him in, and exceedingly surprised to hear the door shutting, and even more than that, to hear the key in the lock.

“Was that the lock?” Bull says, looking as alarmed as he feels right now.

“Talk.” Adaar orders through the door. “The door will be unlocked when you are not idiots.”

“Do you know what this is about?” Bull says.

Wonderful. Apparently Dorian is not just intended to give some sort of romantic advice, but to do so entirely on his own. To fight against the Inquisitor's whims, however, is fairly often like pissing into the wind, so he might as well steel himself and get this mess over with. “I am reliably informed that you are in love.”

He is amazed at how even his voice is when he says it. Bull looks like Dorian's struck him with the back of his hand. “I wasn't going to tell you.” he says, low, soft.

“Whyever not? I'm glad to hear it, truly.” he says, careful with his breathing. He can do this.

Bull looks to the floor, then at him again. “You don't look it. I know this isn't what you want.”

In one hideous moment, the reason for him being here becomes clear. The Iron Bull has obviously realised Dorian's own feelings-- imagine thinking he could keep secrets from a spy, more fool him. Being _The Iron Bull_ , which is to say, an idiot who would happily throw himself into the jaws of a dragon to protect his friends, he has decided to protect Dorian's feelings by denying his own.

Adaar being less of an idiot, she has sent him in here to fix that little matter. Time to make oneself clear, then. And if that is not enough, to be cruel, if he has to. “I have had my heart broken before, Bull. After the first few times, it barely leaves a mark, I promise you.”

Bull nods, slowly. “How do you make it better?”

“Normally? Drinking is involved. I'm sure Adaar will be more than willing to indulge me, and if not, Sera's sticky fingers have probably been into the cellars lately. There's no need to concern yourself with my delicate feelings.” A nice clean break. Encourage him, and then Dorian can go get stinking drunk with a clear conscience. “All you should be thinking about is how to confess to your beloved.” Ideally, a long way away from wherever Dorian is getting drunk so he doesn't have to hear or see or think about it.

There is a very long pause. “I thought this was that.”

“Sorry, what?”

“The bit where I tell you I'm in love with you. We already did that.” Bull scratches at one horn. “I didn't say any of the stuff Krem wrote down because it just felt _weird_ saying it out loud.”

Not that Dorian has ever in his life been prone to hyperbole, but the ground literally shifts beneath his feet. “The person you are in love with is me.”

“Yeah?” Bull says, looking about as bewildered as Dorian feels.

“And our friends just locked us in a room together.” he adds.

“Also yeah.” Bull says.

The conclusion is inescapable. Also impossible. “This is a bad romantic novel. A bad _Antivan_ romantic novel.” Dorian informs him. Then he kisses The Iron Bull, because really, if he's going to be living in a terrible Antivan romantic novel, he might as well take full advantage of the situation.

It is some time before either of them are minded to speak again, but eventually Dorian allows that he probably does have to breathe at some point. “That was a terrible confession and I insist that you do it again.” he says.

“Okay.” Bull says, looking dazed. Dorian suspects that he could get away with requesting quite a lot from The Iron Bull at this point in time, which is a rather tempting thought.

First things first, though. “For a start, I insist that the second time around we do things _without an audience_.” he says, raising his voice for the end of the sentence just enough.

The only response outside is the sound of a key in the lock and a chorus of voices saying “ _Finally._ ”


End file.
